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“Aye,” said John, and at the memory of his sister tears came to his eyes. He glanced once at Elizabeth, seeing there briefly the image of her mother and not the flaunting carnal beauty which always infuriated him. “God’s will be done,” he murmured.

Thomas Fones died at dawn. All the windows were shuttered, black wreaths were nailed to the doors, the sound of weeping filled the house. There was the funeral and burial at St. Sepulchre’s, then almost at once the news of another death. The carrier brought a letter from Margaret saying that old Mistress Winthrop had finally succumbed to her sufferings on April 19, four days after Thomas Fones.

The old lady’s death gave nobody great sorrow, but certainly added no lightness to Elizabeth’s pre-bridal days. She and Harry were to be married on April 25. John Winthrop - having made up his mind to this date, coldly furnished money for the special licence, and apprised the rector at St. Sepulchre’s - would not swerve from the decision.

“I do not,” Winthrop said to Harry with distaste, “wish to know what the probabilities are for disgraceful evidence of your sin with Elizabeth but the marriage will take place as I have arranged. You will then both proceed to Groton, and stay there in seclusion until I have fully acquainted myself with your deplorable financial affairs here in London,
and
decided when you return to Barbadoes.”

Harry gulped and reddened. “Yes, sir.” Always his father reduced him to the status of a discomfited child, try as he would to assert his manhood and own opinions. Also it was true that there seemed to be a startling amount of debts to be paid, and the usual dearth of money with which to do it. His father was being fair, and even spared him reproaches, for the present. But he was also inflexible - and in charge. Harry had not seen Elizabeth alone since Thomas Fones’s death; she seemed sad and remote when he did see her. He still yearned for her, but the glamour of those first hours of their love had been dimmed. Harry, who now lodged at the Downings’, stole out of their house that night, found Seaton and Thanet in one of their favourite taverns near Smithfield and got prodigiously drunk.

On a rainy Saturday morning, April 25, 1629, Elizabeth and Harry Winthrop were married at St. Sepulchre’s in the briefest of ceremonies. They stood and then knelt by the altar rail, swathed both of them in black, as were the handful of family who crowded behind them in the bare aisle. There were no candles, no flowers - and Elizabeth, at John Winthrop’s decree, received no ring from Harry. The wedding ring was a superstition to be abolished like all the other Roman follies which tarnished God’s revealed word.

Marriage was an earthly necessity permitted by Scriptures, but the Lord Jesus had also explicitly said that in heaven there was no marriage or giving in marriage, and some Puritans now considered that a civil contract was sufficient. John Winthrop did not yet subscribe to so sharp a break with tradition, but he insisted on the minimum of ritual, and Elizabeth found herself married before the frightened mist had cleared from her eyes or she had had time to look from the rector’s grave face to that of Harry which had flashed a deep red. He smelled strongly of the brandy he had been swigging since dawn, and seemed to her an utter stranger in the tight black suit and plain white falling collar his father had provided.

As the rector said, “I now pronounce you man and wife” Harry bent to kiss her, but she scarcely responded, for she heard Martha weeping behind her, and John Winthrop’s voice saying, “Very good. So that’s done. We will leave at once for my brother Downing’s.” And they filed silently out of the church.

The wedding breakfast was to be held at Peterborough Court, since the Fones family was in deepest mourning, and Emmanuel Downing had generously hired two coaches to convey them all to his home. He had also overridden Lucy’s objections and ordered a lavish feast with capons, wine, and bride cake. “How can you so countenance this disgraceful marriage!” Lucy had repeatedly cried. “The behaviour of those two had been the death of Thomas Fones, and is like to be the death of your poor clerk Edward to whom that little trollop had given her solemn promise!”

“The egg is burst, m’dear,” rejoined her husband. “As for Edward, he’s not the first man to be jilted, nor will be the last. He’ll recover, and there’s plenty o’ pretty faces in Essex to help him.”

Edward Howes had been sent to his home on a holiday, as soon as Elizabeth and Harry’s intent had become known.

It was Emmanuel who instigated what jollity there was at the wedding breakfast. He circulated flagons of sack, he proposed toasts to the young couple. Gradually the atmosphere thawed, and after John Winthrop yielded to his brother-in-law’s urgings and drank some of the strong, sweet bride-ale, he rose to his feet and held up his pewter mug, smiling stiffly. “I drink to the good health of the new Mistress Winthrop,” he said looking at Elizabeth. He paused and went on, “I propose to let bygones be bygones. You are now wholly a Winthrop, my dear - and have become my daughter. I am sure that with God’s direction you will do credit to your new state and be a true helpmeet to your husband.” His glance flickered over Harry, who was nervously chewing his lips, having downed his mugfull of ale at one draught, “And Henry, on this your wedding day, I give you my blessing, with the prayer that our Gracious Lord will make the light of His countenance shine in your heart, from henceforward.”

Lucy said, “Amen,” and Harry mumbled, “Thank you, sir,” while Elizabeth managed to smile back at her new father-in-law. Indeed, through her continuing daze, she was grateful for his speech. It was rather like God relenting. Elizabeth was not wholly aware that, when she thought of God, she always saw him with John Winthrop’s face.

“And now,” continued John, his eyes softening and his voice rising to genuine warmth, “I wish to propose the healths of two absent ones who are dear to us all. My sweet and good wife, Margaret.” He sipped while they drank, then he added, “And to my beloved son, John.”

At the mention of this name Elizabeth’s numbness shattered. Her cheeks flushed red as Harry’s and then paled. Oh, what have I done? she thought. I never meant it to be Harry - how did it happen - I’ve been mad! But Jack didn’t care for me, he never wrote. Yet now I’ll have to see him all the time’ when he comes back, and I’ll be his
sister
!
If
he comes back . . . her thoughts raced like started hares. She tried to hide her face in the mug and choked on a mouthful of ale. Nobody noticed except Martha who sat across the table, for Emmanuel had risen to propose other toasts. Elizabeth saw the girl’s sympathetic but bewildered eyes watching her. “What is it, Bess?” the little mouth silently formed the words, and they steadied Elizabeth’s panic. “Nothing, darling,” she signalled back, with a rush of love for this sister who never failed in natural sensitivity, though her childishness sometimes precluded understanding. Soon I shall take Martha to live with me at Groton, Elizabeth thought. And with the realization that she had the power now to do this, that she had become a Winthrop of Groton Manor, faint new pride stirred in her.

“Well, Bess - ” said a rough voice at her side. “You’ve not spoke to me since we left the church, I never thought you’d prove so modest a bride!” Harry grabbed her around the waist and kissed her lustily on the mouth, Emmanuel roared, the others all smiled, John Winthrop said tolerantly, “The time has come for the young couple to have privacy, no doubt. You may retire to your chamber when you like.”

“Aye - indeed - ” cried Emmanuel, slapping his thighs. “We’ll all see ye to the marriage bed - as we did in the old days - there’s a song I’ve a mind to sing that’ll fit the occasion.

“O lay her ‘twixt the fair white sheets,
Come my bully boy!
Uncover then her fair white t
- ”

“Husband!” screamed Lucy, drowning him out. “Before God in His mercy, I don’t know what’s got into you!”

“A mort of fine bride-ale and sack’s got into me,” said Emmanuel somewhat sheepishly. “But I see no harm at a wedding. Well, let be - no song then, but I shall insist on one old custom. I’ll kiss the bride.”

And he did, a wet-mouthed smack that Elizabeth endured gladly. She liked her Uncle Emmanuel. Everyone followed suit, Winthrop kissed her on the forehead, Lucy gave a peck at her cheek. Priscilla and the children kissed her heartily, and Martha clung to her a moment, whispering, “Bess, dear, I’m sure you’ll be happy, Harry’s so handsome!”

So Elizabeth and Harry went up to the garden chamber at the Downings’. Later they found again some of the rapture they had known in St. James’s Park, and by morning they were sure that the violence of their passion was proof of unique and undying love. And yet it was not quite the same as on that golden Palm Sunday a month ago. By Tuesday, when Elizabeth and Harry mounted the Winthrop saddle-horses to set out for Suffolk, she had already learned that while Harry was an accomplished lover, he had not the slightest interest in being a husband, and that routine, economy, or forethought bored him to exasperation which he drowned in drink whenever he could escape his father’s eye.

“You will stay at Groton until I summon you,” said Winthrop from the steps as the young couple left the Downings’. “Henry, I shall occupy myself with the preliminaries of your return to Barbadoes - and,” he added dryly, “settle those of your debts for which I can possibly eke out the money.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Harry, while he smoothed his horse’s mane. “It’s very good of you.”

There were a great many aspects of the return to Barbadoes which he had not mentioned to his father, but with Thanet’s brother, Sir William Tufton, as Governor, life there might after all be pleasant enough, and it would be fun to show Elizabeth off to the other planters. He had described the Island in terms that dazzled her - lazing in the sun on long white beaches, blue skies, and bluer waters warm as milk to bathe in, rum mixed with the juice of a huge nut to drink, and no work that one need ever do - the slaves and servants did it all.

“It would seem heavenly,” she agreed. “But, Harry, what of the tobacco plantation? Surely it must be overseen, and the crops tended, garnered, and then sent back to England - accounts kept too?”

“Oh . . .” said Harry shrugging. “Don’t trouble yourself about that, sweetheart; it all gets done somehow.”

Elizabeth remembered the poor wisps of tobacco Harry had sent home, but she was still far too much in love to question.

They rode happily together into the City at Ludgate, then up past St. Paul’s to the broad Chepe, where despite the little market stalls there was more room for traffic than on bustling streets nearer the Thames. They passed the beautiful block of fifteenth-century buildings called Goldsmith’s Row and Harry glanced at them, but it was not here that the goldsmith he sought resided, though here still lived the more fashionable ones. Emmanuel Downing had given him the name of a man in Lombard Street, when Harry had consulted his uncle privately, this being a matter not to be called to John Winthrop’s attention.

Elizabeth looked up in surprise when Harry suddenly dismounted before an imposing shop in Lombard Street. She had been giving all her mind to the management of her horse, which shied at dogs and running children. She had had no chance to ride except at Groton, but she was fearless, and loved animals, so that her horse had begun to obey her. “What’s ado here?” she asked Harry, smiling as he gave her his hand to help her dismount. “Why, it’s a goldsmith’s I” she cried as she saw the characteristic arms over the door.

“It is, my love,” said Harry twinkling, and looking very pleased with himself. “I’m going to buy you a gift.”

“How kind, but darling, we’ve no money.”

Harry, laughing, swept her in through an elegantly carved door to a spacious dark room lined with padlocked coffers. Behind a velvet-covered counter a sleepy apprentice was spitting on and polishing a large silver spoon. Harry addressed him grandly. “Send for Mr. Robert Feake, your master. Say it is Henry Winthrop, Esquire, nephew to Mr. Emmanuel Downing, who wishes him!”

The apprentice grunted and disappeared, while Harry turned triumphantly to Elizabeth. “Ah, but I
have
money, my love. Look at this!”

He opened a little belt purse and showed her a gold sovereign. “Thanet gave it to me on our bridal eve, he said we should spend it as we pleased.”

Elizabeth was delighted, yet during the last days she had learned new prudence, and though she gave Harry a grateful kiss, she said, “But only spend a little on my gift, we’ll save some, won’t we - ’tis all we have for pocket money, you know!” John Winthrop had seen that they were provided with the exact sum necessary to secure one night’s lodging en route, but burdened as he was with Harry’s debts had given nothing else, nor did he wish Harry to have the wherewithal for visits to the taverns at Hadleigh. His written instructions to Margaret had specified that she should labour to keep Harry close on the Manor at all times.

When Robert Feake, the goldsmith, came into the shop bowing and smiling a tight mirthless smile, they had decided to use but a crown for the gift. Harry, though generous, had at once seen the force of her argument. He then proceeded to ask the impossible of Mr. Feake, demanding for this sum a brooch of gold and diamonds. “You are an excellent man, sir- - ” added Harry, with his most charming smile. “A pillar of our reformed Faith, Mr. Downing tells me, you will not I’m sure strike too hard a bargain as our enemies, who call us Puritans, say some do.”

Robert Feake bowed again; his right eyelid twitched almost as though he were winking. “I will do what I can, sir.” He coughed and, opening a coffer which stood under the counter, brought up a velvet-lined tray of cheap brooches.

Elizabeth had stared in momentary surprise when the eyelid began to twitch, and she saw a thin young man of medium height. His pale eyebrows were drawn to a habitual nervous frown. His flaxen strands of hair were so scanty that the scalp showed through. He was dressed in sober grey, and she thought him insignificant, except for the long delicate white fingers, almost womanish, which looked as though they would be skilled in the intricacies of his craft. Harry and Elizabeth leaned together over the tray, and, both ignoring the well-fashioned silver pieces, pounced on a gaudy mixture of twisted yellow metal and rock crystals. “There!” cried Harry. “Almost exactly what I wanted. How much do you ask?”